Report by L. L.
Subsequent annotations, in square brackets, are by O. J. L.
Good morning!
Why, you are psychic yourself!
L. L.—I didn't know I was.
It will come out later.
There are two spirits standing by you; the elder is fully built up, but the younger is not clear yet.
The elder is on the tall side, and well built; he has a beard round his chin, but no moustache.
(This seemed to worry Feda, and she repeated it several times, as if trying to make it clear.)
A beard round chin, and hair at the sides, but upper lip shaved. A good forehead, eyebrows heavy and rather straight—not arched—eyes greyish; hair thin on top, and grey at the sides and back. It looks as if it had been brown before it went grey. A fine-looking face. He is building up something. He suffered here before he passed out (medium indicating chest or stomach). Letter W is held up. (See photograph facing p. [258].)
[This is the one that to other members of the family had been called Grandfather W., p. [143].]
There is another spirit.
Somebody is laughing.
Don't joke—it is serious.
(This was whispered, and sounded as if said to some one else, not to me.)
It's a young man, about twenty-three, or might be twenty-five, judging only by appearance. Tall; well-built; not stout, well-built; brown hair, short at the sides and back; clean shaven; face more oval than round; nose not quite straight, rather rounded, and broader at the nostrils.
(Whispering.) Feda can't see his face.
(Then clearly.) He won't let Feda see his face; he is laughing.
(Whispered several times.) L, L, L.
(Then said out loud.) L. This is not his name; he puts it by you.
(Whispering again.) Feda knows him—Raymond.
Oh, it's Raymond!
(The medium here jumps about, and fidgets with her hands, just as a child would when pleased.)
That is why he would not show his face, because Feda would know him.
He is patting you on the shoulder hard. You can't feel it, but he thinks he is hitting you hard.
[It seems to have been a trick of his to pat a brother on the shoulder gradually harder and harder till humorous retaliation set in.]
He is very bright.
This is the way it is given—it's an impression.
He has been trying to come to you at home, but there has been some horrible mix-ups; not really horrible, but a muddle. He really got through to you, but other conditions get through there, and mixes him up.
[This evidently refers to some private 'Mariemont' sittings, without a medium, with which neither Feda nor Mrs. Leonard had had anything to do. It therefore shows specific knowledge and is of the nature of a mild cross-correspondence; cf. p. [217].]
L. L.—How can we improve it?
He does not understand it sufficiently himself yet. Other spirits get in, not bad spirits, but ones that like to feel they are helping. The peculiar manifestations are not him, and it only confuses him terribly. Part of it was him, but when the table was careering about, it was not him at all. He started it, but something comes along stronger than himself, and he loses the control.
(Whispered.) "Feda, can't you suggest something?"
[This seemed to be a reported part of conversation on the other side.]
Be very firm when it starts to move about.
Prayer helps when things are not relevant.
He is anxious about F.
L. L.—I don't know who F. is. Is it some friend?
(Medium here fidgets.)
Letter F. all right; it's some one he is interested in.
He says he is sorry he worried his mother about [an incident mentioned at some previous sitting].
L. L.—Was it a mistake?
Yes, tell her, because (etc. etc.). When I thought it over I knew it was a mistake. If it had been now, and I had a little more experience in control, I should not have said so; but it was at the beginning—everything seemed such a rush—and I was not quite sure of what I did get through. He did not look at things in the right pers—perpec——
L. L.—Perspective?
Yes, that's what he said.
Do you follow me, old chap?
L. L.—Perfectly.
L. L.—Do you remember a sitting at home when you told me you had a lot to tell me?
Yes. What he principally wanted to say was about the place he is in. He could not spell it all out—too laborious. He felt rather upset at first. You do not feel so real as people do where he is, and walls appear transparent to him now. The great thing that made him reconciled to his new surroundings was—that things appear so solid and substantial. The first idea upon waking up was, I suppose, of what they call 'passing over.' It was only for a second or two, as you count time, [that it seemed a] shadowy vague place, everything vapoury and vague. He had that feeling about it.
The first person to meet him was Grandfather.
(This was said very carefully, as if trying to get it right with difficulty.)
And others then, some of whom he had only heard about. They all appeared to be so solid, that he could scarcely believe that he had passed over.
He lives in a house—a house built of bricks—and there are trees and flowers, and the ground is solid. And if you kneel down in the mud, apparently you get your clothes soiled. The thing I don't understand yet is that the night doesn't follow the day here, as it did on the earth plane. It seems to get dark sometimes, when he would like it to be dark, but the time in between light and dark is not always the same. I don't know if you think all this is a bore.
(I was here thinking whether my pencils would last out; I had two, and was starting on the second one.)
What I am worrying round about is, how it's made, of what it is composed. I have not found out yet, but I've got a theory. It is not an original idea of my own; I was helped to it by words let drop here and there.
People who think everything is created by thought are wrong. I thought that for a little time, that one's thoughts formed the buildings and the flowers and trees and solid ground; but there is more than that.
He says something of this sort:—
[This means that Feda is going to report in the third person again, or else to speak for herself.—O. J. L.]
There is something always rising from the earth plane—something chemical in form. As it rises to ours, it goes through various changes and solidifies on our plane. Of course I am only speaking of where I am now.
He feels sure that it is something given off from the earth, that makes the solid trees and flowers, etc.
He does not know any more. He is making a study of this, but it takes a good long time.
L. L.—I should like to know whether he can get into touch with anybody on earth?
Not always.
Only those wishing to see him, and who it would be right for him to see. Then he sees them before he has thought.
I don't seem to wish for anything.
He does not wish to see anybody unless they are going to be brought to him.
I am told that I can meet anyone at any time that I want to; there is no difficulty in the way of it. That is what makes it such a jolly fine place to live in.
L. L.—Can he help people here?
That is part of his work, but there are others doing that; the greatest amount of his work is still at the war.
I've been home—only likely I've been home—but my actual work is at the war.
He has something to do with father, though his work still lies at the war, helping on poor chaps literally shot into the spirit world.
L. L.—Can you see ahead at all?
He thinks sometimes that he can, but it's not easy to predict.
I don't think that I really know any more than when on earth.
L. L.—Can you tell anything about how the war is going on?
There are better prospects for the war. On all sides now more satisfactory than it has been before.
This is not apparent on the earth plane, but I feel more ... the surface, and more satisfied than before.
I can't help feeling intensely interested. I believe we have lost Greece, and am not sure that it was not due to our own fault. We have only done now what should have been done months ago.
He does not agree about Serbia. Having left them so long has had a bad effect upon Roumania. Roumania thinks will she be in the same boat, if she joins in.
All agree that Russia will do well right through the winter. They are going to show what they can do. They are used to their ground and winter conditions, and Germany is not. There will be steady progress right through the winter.
I think there is something looming now.
Some of the piffling things I used to be interested in, I have forgotten all about. There is such a lot to be interested in here. I realise the seriousness sometimes of this war.... It is like watching a most interesting race or game gradually developing before you. I am doing work in it, which is not so interesting as watching.
L. L.—Have you any message for home?
Of course love to his mother, and to all, specially to mother. H. is doing very well. [Meaning his sister Honor.]
L. L.—In what way?
H. is helping him in a psychic way; she makes it easy for him. He doesn't think he need tell father anything, he is so certain in himself meaning Raymond, in spite of silly mistakes. It disappoints him. We must separate out the good from the bad, and not try more than one form; not the jig—jig——
L. L.—I know; jigger. [A kind of Ouija.]
No. He didn't like the jigger. He thinks he can work the table. [See [Chapter XIX].]
L. L.—Would you tell me how I could help in any way?
Just go very easily, only let one person speak, as he has said before. It can be H. or L. L. Settle on one person to put the questions, the different sound of voices confuses him, and he mixes it up with questions from another's thoughts. In time he hopes it will be not so difficult. He wouldn't give it up, he loves it. Don't try more than twice a week, perhaps only once a week. Try to keep the same times always, and to the same day if possible.
He is going.
Give my love to them all. Tell them I am very happy. Very well, and plenty to do, and intensely interested. I did suffer from shock at first, but I'm extremely happy now.
I'm off. He won't say good-bye.
A lady comes too: A girl, about medium height; on the slender side, not thin, but slender; face, oval shape; blue eyes; lightish brown hair, not golden.
L. L.—Can she give a name—I cannot guess who she is from the description?
She builds up an L.
Not like the description when she was on earth. Very little earth life. She is related to you. She has grown up in the spirit life.
Oh, she is your sister!
She is fair; not so tall as you; a nice face; blue eyes.
L. L.—I know her name now. [See at a previous sitting where this deceased sister is described, p. [159].]
Give her love to them at home, but also principally to mother. And say that she and her brother, not Raymond, have been also to the sittings at home.
She is giving his name. She gives it in such a funny way, as if she was writing, so—— She wrote an N, then quickly changed it into a W. [See also pp. [134],[ 159], and [190].]
She brings lilies with her; she is singing—it's like humming; Feda can't hear the words.
She is going too—power is going.
L. L.—Give my love to her.
Feda sends her love also.
Raymond was having a joke by not showing his face to Feda.
Good-bye.
(Sitting ended at 1.30 p.m.)
CHAPTER XV
SITTING OF M. F. A. L. WITH MRS. LEONARD
Friday, 26 November 1915
A FEW things may be reported from a sitting which Lady Lodge had with Mrs. Leonard on 26 November, however absurd they may seem. They are of course repeated by the childish control Feda, but I do not by that statement of bare fact intend to stigmatise them in any way. Criticism of unverifiable utterances seems to me premature.
The sitting began without preliminaries as usual. It is not a particularly good one, and the notes are rather incomplete, especially near the end of the time, when Feda seemed to wander from the point, and when rather tedious descriptions of people began. These are omitted.
Sitting of M. F. A. L. with Mrs. Leonard at her house on
Friday, 26 November 1915, from 3 to 4.30 p.m.
(No one else present.)
(The sitting began with a statement from Feda that she liked Lionel, and that Raymond had taken her down to his home. Then she reported that Raymond said:—)
"Mother darling, I am so happy, and so much more so because you are."
M. F. A. L.—Yes, we are; and as your father says, we can face Christmas now.
Raymond says he will be there.
M. F. A. L.—We will put a chair for him.
Yes, he will come and sit in it.
He wants to strike a bargain with you. He says, "If I come there, there must be no sadness. I don't want to be a ghost at the feast. There mustn't be one sigh. Please, darling, keep them in order, rally them up. Don't let them. If they do, I shall have the hump." (Feda, sotto voce.—'hump,' what he say.)
M. F. A. L.—We will all drink his health and happiness.
Yes, you can think I am wishing you health too.
M. F. A. L.—We were interested in hearing about his clothes and things; we can't think how he gets them! [The reference is to a second sitting of Lionel, not available for publication.]
They are all man-u-fac-tured. [Feda stumbling over long words.]
Can you fancy you seeing me in white robes? Mind, I didn't care for them at first, and I wouldn't wear them. Just like a fellow gone to a country where there is a hot climate—an ignorant fellow, not knowing what he is going to; it's just like that. He may make up his mind to wear his own clothes a little while, but he will soon be dressing like the natives. He was allowed to have earth clothes here until he got acclimatised; they let him; they didn't force him. I don't think I will ever be able to make the boys see me in white robes.
Mother, don't go doing too much.
M. F. A. L.—I am very strong.
You think you are, but you tire yourself out too much. It troubles me.
M. F. A. L.—Yes, but I should be quite glad to come over there, if I could come quickly, even though I am so happy here, and I don't want to leave people.
Don't you think I would be glad to have you here! If you do what he says, you will come over when the time comes—quick, sharp.
He says he comes and sees you in bed. The reason for that is the air is so quiet then. You often go up there in the spirit-land while your body is asleep.
M. F. A. L.—Would you like us to sit on the same night as Mrs. Kennedy sits, or on different nights? [Meaning in trials for cross-correspondences.]
On the same night, as it wastes less time. Besides, he forgets, if there is too long an interval. He wants to get something of the same sort to each place.
William and Lily come to play with Raymond. Lily had gone on, but came back to be with Raymond. [These mean his long-deceased infant brother and sister.]
(More family talk omitted.)
Get some sittings soon, so as to get into full swing by Christmas. Tell them when they get him through, and he says, "Raymond," tell them to go very easily, and not to ask too many questions. Questions want thinking out beforehand. They are not to talk among themselves, because then they get part of one thing and part of another. And not to say, "No, don't ask him that," or he gets mixed.
Do you know we sometimes have to prepare answers a little before we transmit them; it is a sort of mental effort to give answers through the table. When they say, do you ask, we begin to get ready to speak through the table. Write down a few questions and keep to them.
CHAPTER XVI
O. J. L. SITTING OF DECEMBER 3
With Some Unverifiable Matter
AT a sitting which I had with Mrs. Leonard on 3 December 1915, information was given about the photograph—as already reported, Chapter IV. In all these 'Feda' sittings, the remarks styled sotto voce represent conversation between Feda and the communicator, not addressed to the sitter at all. I always try to record these scraps when I can overhear them; for they are often interesting, and sometimes better than what is subsequently reported as the result of the brief conversation. For she appears to be uttering under her breath not only her own question or comment, but also what she is being told; and sometimes names are in that way mentioned correctly, when afterwards she muddles them. For instance, on one occasion she said sotto voce, "What you say? Rowland?" (in a clear whisper); and then, aloud, "He says something like Ronald." Whereas in this case 'Rowland' proved to be correct. The dramatically childlike character of Feda seems to carry with it a certain amount of childish irresponsibility. Raymond says that he "has to talk to her seriously about it sometimes."
A few other portions, not about the photograph, are included in the record of this sitting, some of a very non-evidential and perhaps ridiculous kind, but I do not feel inclined to suppress them. (For reasons, see [Chapter XII].) Some of them are rather amusing. Unverifiable statements have hitherto been generally suppressed, in reporting Piper and other sittings; but here, in deference partly to the opinion of Professor Bergson— who when he was in England urged that statements about life on the other side, properly studied, like travellers' tales, might ultimately furnish proof more logically cogent than was possible from mere access to earth memories—they are for the most part reproduced. I should think, myself, that they are of very varying degrees of value, and peculiarly liable to unintentional sophistication by the medium. They cannot be really satisfactory, as we have no means of bringing them to book. The difficulty is that Feda encounters many sitters, and though the majority are just inquirers, taking what comes and saying very little, one or two may be themselves full of theories, and may either intentionally or unconsciously convey them to the 'control'; who may thereafter retail them as actual information, without perhaps being sure whence they were derived. Some books, moreover, have been published of late, purporting to give information about ill-understood things in a positive and assured manner, and it is possible that the medium has read these and may be influenced by them. It will be regrettable if these books are taken as authoritative by people unable to judge of the scientific errors which are conspicuous in their more normal portions; and the books themselves seem likely to retard the development of the subject in the minds of critical persons.
Sitting with Mrs. Leonard at her House on Friday,
3 December 1915, from 6.10 p.m. to 8.20 p.m.
(O. J. L. alone.)
This is a long record, because I took verbatim notes, but I propose to inflict it all upon the reader, in accordance with promise to report unverifiable and possibly absurd matter, just as it comes, and even to encourage it.
Feda soon arrived, said good evening, jerked about on the chair, and squeaked or chuckled, after her manner when indicating pleasure. Then, without preliminaries, she spoke:—
He is waiting; he's looking very pleased. He's awful anxious to tell you about the place where he lives; he doesn't understand yet how it looks so solid. (Cf. p. [184].)
(Feda, sotto voce.—What you say? Yes, Feda knows.) He's been watching lately different kinds of people what come over, and the different kinds of effect it has on them.
Oh, it is interesting, he says—much more than on the old earth plane. I didn't want to leave you and mother and all of them, but it is interesting. I wish you could come over for one day, and be with me here. There are times you do go there, but you won't remember. They have all been over with him at night-time, and so have you, but he thought it very hard you couldn't remember. If you did, he is told (he doesn't know it himself, but he is told this), the brain would scarcely bear the burden of the double existence, and would be unfitted for its daily duties; so the memory is shut out. That is the explanation given to him.
(Feda, sotto voce.—What, Raymond? Al—lec, he says, Al—lec, Al—lec.)
He keeps on saying something about Alec. He has been trying to get to Alec, to communicate with him; and he couldn't see if he made himself felt—whether he really got through.
(The medium hitherto had been holding O. J. L.'s left hand; here she let go, Feda saying: He will let you have your own hand back.)
He thought he had got into a bedroom, and that he knocked; but there wasn't much notice taken.
O. J. L.—Alec must come here sometime.[22]
Yes, he wanted to see him.
And he also hopes to be able to talk to Lionel with the direct voice; not here, he says, but somewhere else. He is very anxious to speak to him. Through a chap, he says, a direct voice chap.
O. J. L.—Very well, I will take the message.
Well, he says, he wants to try once or twice. He wants to be able to say what he says to Feda in another way. He thinks he could get through in his own home sometime. He would much rather have it there. And he thinks that if he got through once or twice with direct voice, he might be able to do better in his own home. H. is psychic, he says, but he is afraid of hurting her; he doesn't want to take too much from her. But he really is going to get through. He really has got through at home; but silly spirits wanted to have a game. There was a strange feeling there; he didn't seem to know how much he was doing himself, so he stood aside part of the time. [Mariemont sittings are reported later. Chapter [XIX].]
Then the photograph episode came, as reported in Chapter [IV].
Then it went on (Feda talking, of course, all the time):—
He says he has been trying to go to somebody, and see somebody he used to know. He's not related to them, and the name begins with S. It's a gentleman, he says, and he can't remember, or can't tell Feda the name, but it begins with S. He was trying to get to them, but is not sure that he succeeded.
O. J. L.—Did he want to?
He says it was only curiosity; but he likes to feel that he can look up anybody. But he says, if they take no notice, I shall give up soon, only I just like to see what it feels like to be looking at them from where I am.
O. J. L.—Does he want to say anything more about his house or his clothes or his body?
Oh yes. He is bursting to tell you.
He says, my body's very similar to the one I had before. I pinch myself sometimes to see if it's real, and it is, but it doesn't seem to hurt as much as when I pinched the flesh body. The internal organs don't seem constituted on the same lines as before. They can't be quite the same. But to all appearances, and outwardly, they are the same as before. I can move somewhat more freely, he says.
Oh, there's one thing, he says, I have never seen anybody bleed.
O. J. L.—Wouldn't he bleed if he pricked himself?
He never tried it. But as yet he has seen no blood at all.
O. J. L.—Has he got ears and eyes?
Yes, yes, and eyelashes, and eyebrows, exactly the same, and a tongue and teeth. He has got a new tooth now in place of another one he had—one that wasn't quite right then. He has got it right, and a good tooth has come in place of the one that had gone.
He knew a man that had lost his arm, but he has got another one. Yes, he has got two arms now. He seemed as if without a limb when first he entered the astral, seemed incomplete, but after a while it got more and more complete, until he got a new one. He is talking of people who have lost a limb for some years.
O. J. L.—What about a limb lost in battle?
Oh, if they have only just lost it, it makes no difference, it doesn't matter; they are quite all right when they get here. But I am told—he doesn't know this himself, but he has been told—that when anybody's blown to pieces, it takes some time for the spirit-body to complete itself, to gather itself all in, and to be complete. It dissipated a certain amount of substance which is undoubtedly theric, theric—etheric, and it has to be concentrated again. The spirit isn't blown apart, of course,—he doesn't mean that,—but it has an effect upon it. He hasn't seen all this, but he has been inquiring because he is interested.
O. J. L.—What about bodies that are burnt?
Oh, if they get burnt by accident, if they know about it on this side, they detach the spirit first. What we call a spirit-doctor comes round and helps. But bodies should not be burnt on purpose. We have terrible trouble sometimes over people who are cremated too soon; they shouldn't be. It's a terrible thing; it has worried me. People are so careless. The idea seems to be—"hurry up and get them out of the way now that they are dead." Not until seven days, he says. They shouldn't be cremated for seven days.
O. J. L.—But what if the body goes bad?
When it goes bad, the spirit is already out. If that much (indicating a trifle) of spirit is left in the body, it doesn't start mortifying. It is the action of the spirit on the body that keeps it from mortifying. When you speak about a person 'dying upwards,' it means that the spirit is getting ready and gradually getting out of the body. He saw the other day a man going to be cremated two days after the doctor said he was dead. When his relations on this side heard about it, they brought a certain doctor on our side, and when they saw that the spirit hadn't got really out of the body, they magnetised it, and helped it out. But there was still a cord, and it had to be severed rather quickly, and it gave a little shock to the spirit, like as if you had something amputated; but it had to be done. He believes it has to be done in every case. If the body is to be consumed by fire, it is helped out by spirit-doctors. He doesn't mean that a spirit-body comes out of its own body, but an essence comes out of the body—oozes out, he says, and goes into the other body which is being prepared. Oozes, he says, like in a string. String, that's what he say. Then it seems to shape itself, or something meets it and shapes round it. Like as if they met and went together, and formed a duplicate of the body left behind. It's all very interesting.[23]
He told Lionel about his wanting a suit at first [at an unreported second sitting]. He never thought that they would be able to provide him with one.
O. J. L. —Yes, I know, Lionel told us; that you wanted something more like your old clothes at first, and that they didn't force you into new ones, but let you begin with the old kind, until you got accustomed to the place (p. [189]).
Yes, he says, they didn't force me, but most of the people here wear white robes.
O. J. L.—Then, can you tell any difference between men and women?
There are men here, and there are women here. I don't think that they stand to each other quite the same as they did on the earth plane, but they seem to have the same feeling to each other, with a different expression of it. There don't seem to be any children born here. People are sent into the physical body to have children on the earth plane; they don't have them here. But there's a feeling of love between men and women here which is of a different quality to that between two men or two women; and husband and wife seem to meet differently from mother and son, or father and daughter. He says he doesn't want to eat now. But he sees some who do; he says they have to be given something which has all the appearance of an earth food. People here try to provide everything that is wanted. A chap came over the other day, would would have a cigar. "That's finished them," he thought. He means he thought they would never be able to provide that. But there are laboratories over here, and they manufacture all sorts of things in them. Not like you do, out of solid matter, but out of essences, and ethers, and gases. It's not the same as on the earth plane, but they were able to manufacture what looked like a cigar. He didn't try one himself, because he didn't care to; you know he wouldn't want to. But the other chap jumped at it. But when he began to smoke it, he didn't think so much of it; he had four altogether, and now he doesn't look at one.[24] They don't seem to get the same satisfaction out of it, so gradually it seems to drop from them. But when they first come they do want things. Some want meat, and some strong drink; they call for whisky sodas. Don't think I'm stretching it, when I tell you that they can manufacture even that. But when they have had one or two, they don't seem to want it so much—not those that are near here. He has heard of drunkards who want it for months and years over here, but he hasn't seen any. Those I have seen, he says, don't want it any more—like himself with his suit, he could dispense with it under the new conditions.
He wants people to realise that it's just as natural as on the earth plane.
O. J. L.—Raymond, you said your house was made of bricks. How can that be? What are the bricks made of?
That's what he hasn't found out yet. He is told by some, who he doesn't think would lead him astray, that they are made from sort of emanations from the earth. He says there's something rising, like atoms rising, and consolidating after they come; they are not solid when they come, but we can collect and concentrate them—I mean those that are with me. They appear to be bricks, and when I touch them, they feel like bricks; and I have seen granite too.
There's something perpetually rising from your plane; practically invisible—in atoms when it leaves your plane—but when it comes to the ether, it gains certain other qualities round each atom, and by the time it reaches us, certain people take it in hand, and manufacture solid things from it. Just as you can manufacture solid things.
All the decay that goes on on the earth plane is not lost. It doesn't just form manure or dust. Certain vegetable and decayed tissue does form manure for a time, but it gives off an essence or a gas, which ascends, and which becomes what you call a 'smell.' Everything dead has a smell, if you notice; and I know now that the smell is of actual use, because it is from that smell that we are able to produce duplicates of whatever form it had before it became a smell. Even old wood has a smell different from new wood; you may have to have a keen nose to detect these things on the earth plane.
Old rags, he says (sotto voce.—Yes, all right, Feda will go back), cloth decaying and going rotten. Different kinds of cloth give off different smells—rotting linen smells different to rotting wool. You can understand how all this interests me. Apparently, as far as I can gather, the rotting wool appears to be used for making things like tweeds on our side. But I know I am jumping, I'm guessing at it. My suit I expect was made from decayed worsted on your side.[25]
Some people here won't take this in even yet—about the material cause of all these things. They go talking about spiritual robes made of light, built by the thoughts on the earth plane. I don't believe it. They go about thinking that it is a thought robe that they're wearing, resulting from the spiritual life they led; and when we try to tell them that it is manufactured out of materials, they don't believe it. They say, "No, no, it's a robe of light and brightness which I manufactured by thought." So we just leave it. But I don't say that they won't get robes quicker when they have led spiritual lives down there; I think they do, and that's what makes them think that they made the robes by their lives.
You know flowers, how they decay. We have got flowers here; your decayed flowers flower again with us—beautiful flowers. Lily has helped me a lot with flowers.
O. J. L.—Do you like her?
Yes, but he didn't expect to see her.
(Feda, sotto voce.—No. Raymond, you don't mean that.)
Yes, he does. He says he's afraid he wasn't very polite to her when he met her at first; he didn't expect a grown-up sister there. Am I a little brother, he said, or is she my little sister? She calls me her little brother, but I have a decided impression that she should be my little sister.
He feels a bit of a mystery: he has got a brother there he knows, but he says two.
(Sotto voce.—No, Yaymond, you can't have two. No, Feda doesn't understand.) Is it possible, he says, that he has got another brother—one that didn't live at all?
O. J. L.—Yes, it is possible.
But he says, no earth life at all! That's what's strange. I've seen some one that I am told is a brother, but I can't be expected to recognise him, can I? I feel somehow closer to Lily than I do to that one. By and by I will get to know him, I dare say.
I'm told that I am doing very well in the short time I have been here. Taking to it—what he say?—duck to water, he say.
O. J. L.—You know the earth is rolling along through space. How do you keep up with it?
It doesn't seem like that to him.
O. J. L.—No, I suppose not. Do you see the stars?
Yes, he sees the stars. The stars seem like what they did, only he feels closer to them. Not really closer, but they look clearer; not appreciably closer, he says.
O. J. L.—Are they grouped the same? Do you see the Great Bear, for instance?
Oh, yes, he sees the Great Bear. And he sees the ch, ch, chariot, he says.
O. J. L.—Do you mean Cassiopeia?
Yes. [But I don't suppose he did.]
There's one more mystery to him yet, it doesn't seem day and night quite by regular turns, like it did on the earth.
O. J. L.—But I suppose you see the sun?
Yes, he sees the sun; but it seems always about the same degree of warmth, he doesn't feel heat or cold where he is. The sun doesn't make him uncomfortably hot. That is not because the sun has lost its heat, but because he hasn't got the same body that sensed the heat. When he comes into contact with the earth plane, and is manifesting, then he feels a little cold or warm—at least he does when a medium is present—not when he comes in the ordinary way just to look round. When he sang last night, he felt cold for a minute or two.
O. J. L.—Did he sing?
Yes, he and Paulie had a scuffle. Paulie was singing first, and Yaymond thought he would like to sing too, so he chipped in at the end. He sang about three verses. It wasn't difficult, because there was a good deal of power there. Also nobody except Mrs. Kathie knew who he was, and so all eyes were not on him, and they were not expecting it, and that made it easier for him. He says it wasn't so difficult as keeping up a conversation; he just took the organs there, and materialised his own voice in her throat. He didn't find it very difficult, he hadn't got to think of anything, or collect his ideas; there was an easy flow of words, and he just sang. And I did sing, he says; I thought I'd nearly killed the medium. She hadn't any voice at all after. When he heard himself that he had really got it, he had to let go. Raised the roof, he says, and he did enjoy it!
(Here Feda gave an amused chuckle with a jump and a squeak.)
He was just practising there, Yaymond says. At first he thought it wouldn't be easy.
[This relates to what I am told was a real occurrence at a private gathering; but it is not evidential.]
O. J. L.—Raymond, you know you want to give me some proofs. What kind of proofs do you think are best? Have you talked it over with Mr. Myers, and have you decided on the kind of proof that will be most evidential?
I don't know yet. I feel divided between two ways: One is to give you objective proof, such as simple materialisations and direct voice, which you can set down and have attested. Or else I should have to give you information about my different experiences here, either something like what I am doing now, or through the table, or some other way. But he doesn't know whether he will be able to do the two things together.
O. J. L.—No, not likely, not at the same time. But you can take opportunities of saying more about your life there.
Yes, that's why he has been collecting information. He does so want to encourage people to look forward to a life they will certainly have to enter upon, and realise that it is a rational life. All this that he has been giving you now, and that I gave to Lionel, you must sort out, and put in order, because I can only give it scrappily. I want to study things here a lot. Would you think it selfish if I say I wouldn't like to be back now?—I wouldn't give this up for anything. Don't think it selfish, or that I want to be away from you all. I have still got you, because I feel you so close, closer even. I wouldn't come back, I wouldn't for anything that anyone could give me.
He hardly liked to put it that way to his mother.
Is Alec here? (Feda looking round.)
O. J. L.—No, but I hope he will be coming.
Tell him not to say who he is. I did enjoy myself that first time that Lionel came—I could talk for hours.
(O. J. L. had here looked at his watch quietly.)
I could talk for hours; don't go yet.
He says he thinks he was lucky when he passed on, because he had so many to meet him. That came, he knows now, through your having been in with this thing for so long. He wants to impress this on those that you will be writing for: that it makes it so much easier for them if they and their friends know about it beforehand. It's awful when they have passed over and won't believe it for weeks,—they just think they're dreaming. And they won't realise things at all sometimes. He doesn't mind telling you now that, just at first, when he woke up, he felt a little depression. But it didn't last long. He cast his eyes round, and soon he didn't mind. But it was like finding yourself in a strange place, like a strange city; with people you hadn't seen, or not seen for a long time, round you. Grandfather was with me straight away; and presently Robert. I got mixed up between two Roberts. And there's some one called Jane comes to him, who calls herself an aunt, he says. Jane. He's uncertain about her. Jane—Jennie. She calls herself an aunt; he is told to call her 'Aunt Jennie.' Is she my Aunt Jennie? he says.
O. J. L.—No, but your mother used to call her that.
[And so on, simple talk about family and friends.]
He has brought that doggie again, nice doggie. A doggie that goes like this, and twists about (Feda indicating a wriggle). He has got a nice tail, not a little stumpy tail, nice tail with nice hair on it. He sits up like that sometimes, and comes down again, and puts his tongue out of his mouth. He's got a cat too, plenty of animals, he says. He hasn't seen any lions and tigers, but he sees horses, cats, dogs, and birds. He says you know this doggie; he has nice hair, a little wavy, which sticks up all over him, and has twists at the end. Now he's jumping round. He hasn't got a very pointed face, but it isn't like a little pug-dog either; it's rather a long shape. And he has nice ears what flaps, not standing up; nice long hairs on them too. A darkish colour he looks, darkish, as near as Feda can see him. [See photograph, p. 278.]
O. J. L.—Does he call him by any name?
He says, 'Not him.'
(Sotto voce.—What you mean 'not him'? It is a 'him'; you don't call him 'it.')
No, he won't explain. No, he didn't give it a name. It can jump.
[All this about a she-dog called Curly, whose death had been specially mentioned by 'Myers' through another medium some years ago,—an incident reported privately to the S.P.R. at the time,—is quite good as far as it goes.]
He has met a spirit here, he says, who knows you—G. Nothing to do with the other G. Some one that's a very fine sort indeed. His name begins with G—Gal, Gals, Got, Got,—he doesn't know him very well, but it sounds like that. It isn't who you feel, though it might have been, nothing to do with that at all. Some one called Golt—he didn't know him, but he is interested in you, and had met you.
It's surprising how many people come up to me, he says, and shake me by the hand, and speak to me. I don't know them from Adam. (Sotto voce.—Adam, he say.) But they are doing me honour here, and some of them are such fine men. He doesn't know them, but they all seem to be interested in you, and they say, "Oh, are you his son?—how-do-you-do?"
Feda is losing control.
O. J. L.—Well, good-bye, Raymond, then, and God bless you.
God bless you. I do so want you to know that I am very happy. And bless them all. My love to you. I can't tell what I feel, but you can guess. It's difficult to put into words. My love to all. God bless you and everybody. Good-bye, father.
O. J. L.—Good-bye, Raymond. Good-bye, Feda.
(Feda here gave a jerk, and a 'good-bye.')
Love to her what 'longs to you, and to Lionel. Feda knows what your name is, 'Soliver,' yes. (Another squeak.)
(Sitting ended 8.20 p.m.)
The conclusion of sittings is seldom of an evidential character, and by most people would not be recorded; but occasionally it may be best to quote one completely, just as a specimen of what may be called the 'manner' of a sitting.
Footnotes
[22] Alec had had a sitting with Peters, not with Mrs. Leonard.
[23] I confess that I think that Feda may have got a great deal of this, perhaps all of it, from people who have read or written some of the books referred to in my introductory remarks. But inasmuch as her other utterances are often evidential, I feel that I have no right to pick and choose; especially as I know nothing about it, one way or the other.
[24] Some of this Feda talk is at least humorous.
[25] I have not yet traced the source of all this supposed information.
CHAPTER XVII
K. K. AUTOMATIC WRITING
ON 17 December 1915, I was talking to Mrs. Kennedy when her hand began to write, and I had a short conversation which may be worth reporting:—
I have been here such a long time, please tell father I am here—Raymond.
O. J. L.—My boy!
Dear father!
Father, it was difficult to say all one felt, but now I don't care. I love you. I love you intensely. Father, please speak to me.
O. J. L.—I recognise it, Raymond. Have you anything to say for the folk at home?
I have been there to-day; I spoke to mother. I don't know if she heard me, but I rather think so. Please tell her this, and kiss her from me.
O. J. L.—She had a rather vivid dream or vision of you one morning lately. I don't know if it was a dream.
I feel sure she will see me, but I don't know, because I am so often near her that I can't say yes or no to any particular time.
O. J. L.—Raymond, you know it is getting near Christmas now?
I know. I shall be there; keep jolly or it hurts me horribly. Truly, I know it is difficult, but you must know by now that I am so splendid. I shall never be one instant out of the house on Christmas Day. (Pause.)
He has gone to fetch some one.—Paul.
(This is the sort of interpolation which frequently happens. Paul signs his explanatory sentence.)
(K. K. presently said that Raymond had returned, and expected me to be aware of it.)
I have brought Mr. Myers. He says he doesn't often come to use this means, but he wants to speak for a moment.
"Get free and go on," he says. "Don't let them trammel you. Get at it, Lodge."—Myers.
He has gone, tell my father.
(O. J. L., sotto voce.—What does that mean?)
(K. K.—I haven't an idea.)
O. J. L.—Has Myers gone right away?
"I have spoken, but I will speak again, if you keep quiet (meaning K. K.). Do cease to think, or you are useless. Tell Lodge I can't explain half his boy is to me. I feel as if I had my own dearly loved son here, yet I know he is only lent to me.
"Pardon me if I rarely use you (to K. K.); I can't stand the way you bother."—Myers.
K. K.—Do you mean the way I get nervous if I am taking a message from you?
"Yes, I do."
[This interpolated episode was commented on by O. J. L. as very characteristic.]
O. J. L.—Is Raymond still there?
Yes.
O. J. L.—Raymond, do you know we've got that photograph you spoke of? Mrs. Cheves sent us it, the mother of Cheves—Captain Cheves, you remember him?
Yes, I know you have the photograph.
O. J. L.—Yes, and your description of it was very good. And we have seen the man leaning on you. Was there another one taken of you?
K. K.—'Four,' he says 'four.' Did you say 'four,' Raymond?
Yes, I did.
O. J. L.—Yes, we have those taken of you by yourself, but was another taken of you with other officers?
I hear, father; I shall look, but I think you have had the one I want you to have; I have seen you looking at it. I have heard all that father has said. It is ripping to come like this. Tell my father I have enjoyed it.—Raymond.
O. J. L.—Before you go, Raymond, I want to ask a serious question. Have you been let to see Christ?
Father, I shall see him presently. It is not time yet. I am not ready. But I know he lives, and I know he comes here. All the sad ones see him if no one else can help them. Paul has seen him: you see he had such a lot of pain, poor chap. I am not expecting to see him yet, father. I shall love to when it's the time.—Raymond.
O. J. L.—Well, we shall be very happy this Christmas I think.
Father, tell mother she has her son with her all day on Christmas Day. There will be thousands and thousands of us back in the homes on that day, but the horrid part is that so many of the fellows don't get welcomed. Please keep a place for me. I must go now. Bless you again, father.—Raymond.
(Paul then wrote a few words to his mother.)
CHAPTER XVIII
FIRST SITTING OF ALEC WITH MRS. LEONARD
ON 21 December 1915 Alec had his first sitting with Mrs. Leonard; but he did not manage to go quite anonymously—the medium knew that he was my son. Again there is a good deal of unverifiable matter, which whether absurd or not I prefer not to suppress; my reasons are indicated in Chapters xii and xvi Part II, and xi Part III.
Alec's (A. M. L.'s) Sitting with Mrs. Leonard at her House
on Tuesday Afternoon, 21 December 1915, 3.15 to 4.30 p.m.
(Medium knows I am Sir Oliver Lodge's son.)
Front room; curtains drawn; dark; small red lamp. No one else present.
Mrs. Leonard shook hands saying, "Mr. Lodge?"
(Medium begins by rubbing her own hands vigorously.)
Good morning! This is Feda.
Raymond's here. He would have liked A and B.
(Feda, sotto voce.—What you mean, A and B?)
Oh, he would have liked to talk to A and B. [See [Note A].] He says: "I wish you could see me, I am so pleased; but you know I am pleased."
He has been trying hard to get to you at home. He thinks he is getting closer, and better able to understand the conditions which govern this way of communicating. He thinks that in a little while he will be able to give actual tests at home. He knows he has got through, but not satisfactorily. He gets so far, and then flounders.
(Feda, sotto voce.—That's what fishes do!)
He says he is feeling splendid. He did not think it was possible to feel so well.
He was waiting here; he knew you were coming, but thought you might not be able to come to-day. [Train half an hour late.]
Did you take notice of what he said about the place he is in?
A. M. L.—Yes. But I find it very difficult to understand.
He says, it is such a solid place, I have not got over it yet. It is so wonderfully real.
He spoke about a river to his father; he has not seen the sea yet. He has found water, but doesn't know whether he will find a sea. He is making new discoveries every day. So much is new, although of course not to people who have been here some time.
He went into the library with his grandfather—Grandfather William—and also somebody called Richard, and he says the books there seem to be the same as you read.
Now this is extraordinary: There are books there not yet published on the earth plane. He is told—only told, he does not know if it is correct—that those books will be produced, books like those that are there now; that the matter in them will be impressed on the brain of some man, he supposes an author.
He says that not everybody on his plane is allowed to read those books; they might hurt them—that is, the books not published yet. Father is going to write one—not the one on now, but a fresh one.
Has his father found out who it was, beginning with G, who said he was going to help (meaning help Raymond) for his father's sake? It was not the person he thought it was at the time (p. [204]).
It is very difficult to get things through. He wants to keep saying how pleased he is to come.
There are hundreds of things he will think of after he is gone.
He has brought Lily, and William—the young one——
(Feda, sotto voce.—I don't know whether it is right, but he appears to have two brothers.)
[Two brothers as well as a sister died in extreme infancy. He would hardly know that, normally.—O. J. L.]
A. M. L.—Feda, will you ask Raymond if he would like me to ask some questions?
Yes, with pleasure, he says.
A. M. L.—A little time ago, Raymond said he was with mother. Mother would like to know if he can say what she was doing when he came? Ask Raymond to think it over, and see if he can remember?
Yes, yes. She'd got some wool and scissors. She had a square piece of stuff—he is showing me this—she was working on the square piece of stuff. He shows me that she was cutting the wool with the scissors.
Another time, she was in bed.
She was in a big chair—dark covered——
This refers to the time mentioned first. [[Note B].]
A. M. L.—Ask Raymond if he can remember which room she was in?
(Pause.)
He can't remember. He can't always see more than a corner of the room—it appears vapourish and shadowy.
He often comes when you're in bed.
He tried to call out loudly: he shouted, 'Alec, Alec!' but he didn't get any answer. That is what puzzles him. He thinks he has shouted, but apparently he has not even manufactured a whisper.
A. M. L.—Feda, will you ask Raymond if he can remember trivial things that happened, as these things often make the best tests?
He says he can now and again.
A. M. L.—The questions that father asked about 'Evinrude,' 'Dartmoor,' and 'Argonauts,' are all trivial, but make good tests, as father knows nothing about them.
Yes, Raymond quite understands. He is just as keen as you are to give those tests.
A. M. L.—Ask Raymond if the word 'Evinrude' in connexion with a holiday trip reminds him of anything?
Yes. (Definitely.)
A. M. L.—And 'Argonauts'?
Yes. (Definitely.)
A. M. L.—And 'Dartmoor'?
Yes. (Definitely.)
A. M. L.—Well, don't answer the questions now, but if father asks them again, see if you can remember anything.
(While Alec was speaking, Feda was getting a message simultaneously:—)
He says something burst.
[This is excellent for Dartmoor, but I knew it.—A. M. L.] [[Note C].]
A. M. L.—Tell Raymond I am quite sure he gets things through occasionally, but that I think often the meaning comes through altered, and very often appears to be affected by the sitter. It appears to me that they usually get what they expect.
Raymond says, "I only wish they did!" But in a way you are right. He is never able to give all he wishes. Sometimes only a word, which often must appear quite disconnected. Often the word does not come from his mind; he has no trace of it. Raymond says, for this reason it is a good thing to try, more, to come and give something definite at home. When you sit at the table, he feels sure that what he wants to say is influenced by some one at the table. Some one is helping him, some one at the table is guessing at the words. He often starts a word, but somebody finishes it.
He asked father to let you come and not say who you were; he says it would have been a bit of fun.
A. M. L.—Ask Raymond if he can remember any characteristic things we used to talk about among ourselves?
Yes. He says you used to talk about cars.
(Feda, sotto voce.—What you mean? Everybody talks about cars!)
And singing. He used to fancy he could sing. He didn't sing hymns. On Thursday nights he has to sing hymns, but they are not in his line.
[On Thursday nights I am told that a circle holds sittings for developing the direct voice at Mrs. Leonard's, and that they sing hymns. Paul and Raymond have been said to join in. Cf. near end of Chapter XVI, p. [201].]
A. M. L.—What used he to sing?
Hello—Hullalo—sounds like Hullulu—Hullulo. Something about 'Hottentot'; but he is going back a long way, he thinks. [See note in Appendix about this statement.]
(Feda, sotto voce.—An orange lady?)
He says something about an orange lady.
(Feda, sotto voce.—Not what sold oranges?)
No, of course not. He says a song extolling the virtues and beauties of an orange lady.
[Song: "My Orange Girl." Excellent. The last song he bought.—A. M. L.]
And a funny song which starts 'Ma,' but Feda can't see any more—like somebody's name. Also something about 'Irish eyes.' [See [Note D].]
(Feda, sotto voce.—Are they really songs?)
Very much so.
(A number of unimportant incidents were now mentioned.)
He says it is somebody's birthday in January.
A. M. L.—It is.
(Feda, sotto voce.—What's a beano? Whose birthday?)
He won't say whose birthday. He says, He knows (meaning A.).
[Raymond's own birthday, 25 Jan., was understood.]
(More family talk.)
Yes, he says he is going now. He says the power is getting thin.
A. M. L.—Wish him good luck from me, Feda.
Love to all of them.
My love to you, old chap.
Just before I go: Don't ever any of you regret my going. I believe I have got more to do than I could have ever done on the earth plane. It is only a case of waiting, and just meeting every one of you as you come across to him. He is going now. He says Willie too—young Willie. [His deceased brother.]
(Feda, sotto voce.—Yes, what? Proclivities?)
Oh, he is only joking.
He says: Not Willie of the weary proplic—propensities—that's it.
He is joking. Just as many jokes here as ever before. Even when singing hymns. When he and Paul are singing, they do a funny dance with their arms. (Showing a sort of cake-walk—moving arms up and down.)
(Feda.—It's a silly dance, anyway.)
Good-bye, and good luck.
[Characteristic; see, for instance, a letter of his on page 41 above. I happen to have just seen another letter, to Brodie, which concludes: "Well, good-bye, Brodie, and good luck."—O. J. L.]
Yes, he is going. Yes. He is gone now, yes.
Do you want to say anything to Feda?
A. M. L.—Yes, thank you very much for all your help. The messages are sometimes difficult, but it is most important to try and give exactly what you hear, and nothing more, whether you understand it or not.
Feda understands. She only say exactly what she hear, even though it is double-Dutch. Don't forget to give my love to them all.
A. M. L.—Good-bye, Feda. (Shakes hands.)
Medium comes-to in about two or three minutes.
(Signed) A. M. L.
21 December 1915
[All written out fair same evening. Part on way home, and part after arriving, without disturbance from seeing anybody.]